The Long Road
by RedSmileyFace
Summary: Sandor has a drinking problem. A problem with drinking blood. Too bad there's no Blood Suckers Anonymous for him to attend. The good news? Sansa. Dark, gorey, some character deaths, vampires, failed rape attempts. Same incident as my "Sweetest Kill" story, with happier results. No, you do not have to read that first, it is more graphic then this one.
1. Sweetest Kill: Redux

**Someone (*cough* Zsra187 *cough*) reviewed on my "sweetest kill" that she was intrigued by the idea of a vampire story, and how she wouldn't complain if I made it a longer story. Well... here it is. Because Damnit! Inspiration happened. Or some shit like that.**

**If you've read Sweetest Kill, this is an alternate ending with a different POV. If you haven't read it, don't worry, it's darker and more morbid then this one, and a one shot; but you won't be missing much. This one is still dark and morbid, but not quite to the same degree. Well... maybe in later chapters. But for now, it's safe (ish).**

**This will NOT be updated regularly, like my other stories tend to (more or less... shut up!). But, I really really really couldn't wait to share. It's dark. It might end sad. I don't know, there's no ending yet...**

**Very little editing as of right now. Forgive my mistakes.**

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><p>"It's getting late!" Joffrey yelled over the loud bass thumping through their eardrums at the bar, "Do you want to go?"<p>

Smiling at his gallantry, Sansa nodded in the affirmative. As he led her with his hand on the small of her back, she quickly thought over the evening: laughing at her daring move to sneak out of her parent's house, blushing at the attentions the older boy paid upon her, cringing at the amount of alcohol she had drunk, more then she had originally planned...

She sighs in relief as the cool night air caresses her face. While dancing and making small talk with Joffrey had been fun, it was getting late and she was tired and warm. Hot from the dancing and from the more then healthy dose of rum running through her veins.

Joffrey hung his arm around her shoulders, and Sansa leaned into him, greateful for his steadying presence. She smirked when she thought upon the next day, mere hours away, already not caring the least about the lack of sleep, for her rewards would be better, much better. She was only a freshman at King's Landing High, a transfer from a small northern town, family steeped in mystery to the southerners. She was unknown and relatively unpopular, yet she had scored the most handsome and popular jock, and he was a _senior_! She couldn't wait to see the faces of her friends.

She giggled, and Joffrey squeezed her closer, laughing along though he didn't know why. He was good like that, indulging her courtesies, after school activities, and fantasies that left her spaced out more then once. It was fair turn, for she had to put up with his own sports schedules, the need for her presence at every game, and his own peculiar brand of temper.

She reached over to rub his stomach, glad he had convinced her out for the night. Relieved that the fake IDs he procured from who knows where worked, and hopeful that no one in her family would ever find out, least of all her mother.

She giggled at that though. Laughter erupting soon after as Joffrey tickled her in turn. Playfully, the traded blows: him with twitchy fingers, her with half-hearted shoves. When he finally stopped, she realized that he had maneuvered her into the alleyway across from where he parked. He grinned at her, and she was captivated by his classic beauty. He leaned closer, and her heart sped up, practically breaking open her ribcage as he kissed her.

It was by no means their first, but somehow it was different. He was demanding, hot, and exploring her in a way he hadn't before. Her lips would be bruised the next day, and that would be a first. But she didn't care, it was delicious! Moaning, she hugged him closer, wanting to kiss a little while longer, pleased at his ardent kissing, even if it was a little sour tasting.

He squeezed a breast, and she allowed him. She may even have liked it. She drew the line at his hand fluttering beneath her halter top: she smacked his hand away, giggling to soften the blow, as if to say, "later, you can touch that later."

They continue to kiss, and his hand rubs her side, as if to assure her his intentions were true. She moans again, arching to him as his kisses continued to thrill her.

His hand caresses her thigh, and she lets him, though in the back of her mind she wishes he wouldn't ruin their good make-out session with far too curious hands in a far too open atmosphere.

When his hand goes to the inside of her thigh, just below the hem of her short skirt, however, she has to break the kiss. "Wait." She whispers, "Not here. It's too in the open."

"The car?" he asks.

"Yes. Please take me home."

He laughs. "I'm hardly going to take you in the room above your parents!"

Furrowing her brow, she replies, "No. Not now, not here, and not tonight. I'm a little tipsy, and besides, I'm not ready for that!"

His face, for the first time in her memory, blazes in fury. She had seen him angry before, but never quite dangerously so. She quails, "Please, Joff, I had an enjoyable night. Please, take me home, don't scare me like that. Don't ruin what a nice night we had. Please..."

"You cock tease!" At her indignant gasp, he just laughs, "Oh, please, princess, what did you think was going to happen? That I would just be happy to have a platonic relationship forever? Or just until you graduate high school? I'll be long gone by then, in college, and this will have been a waste!" He yells in her face.

She slaps him, hard. "Take me home!" She demands.

Slowly, his face turns back to her from when it had turned on her slap. When he faces her, he ignores her tears, her trembling lip, just sneers at her, then backhands her in retaliation, his varsity ring catching on her lip and cutting her. When she cries out, he shoves one hand over her mouth, and grabs a fistful of her hair with his other. "Hear me, bitch, I'll have you willing or no."

Muffled under his hands are her pleas and her begging him to take her home. He removes his hand from her mouth, quickly jerking it to slap her again. She winces and prepares for the blow, closing her eyes against the pain, when instead Joffrey is jerked away from her.

Her eyes are still closed, but she hears a raspy voice address her boyfriend, "You'll not have her at all." And then she hears Joffrey cry out in pain.

Taking a quick breath to steel her nerves, she opens her eyes, and gasps in shock. Joffrey is still in front of her, looming above her, yet his eyes are glazed in fear, trying in vain to see that which holds him. Behind him stands an even taller man, for the most part hidden in shadows. One muscled arm flexes with strength around Joffrey's shoulders as he holds Joffrey to his body. The other arms tenses with the same strength, grasping Joffrey's golden locks between the dark fingers graced with even darker hair, yanking the head to the side to reveal the neck.

But even more strange then the stranger holding Joffrey like so, was the stranger leaning over Joffrey's shoulder, biting his neck, _licking his neck! _Gods! He was a VAMPIRE! Oh Gods! Oh Gods! It was all Sansa could think. Even as she watched the life flicker from Joffrey's eyes, watched thin lines of red form on his neck and stain the collar of his shirt, and then finally latched onto the gaze of the vampire, all she could think was: _Oh gods!_

The stranger, the dark vampire, continued to suck and drain the life out of her boyfriend, and continued to stare at her. She was captivated by his stare: it was angry yet not at her, it was strong and old and... and... would not let her go! She stood rooted to her spot, lips quivering in abject terror; a doe caught in the headlights. Her whole body seemed to grab at the brick wall of the alley behind her, while he stood towering over her, holding her erstwhile boyfriend between them.

Joffrey slowly stopped struggling, at one point passing out; yet the staring contest continued. She wondered if the vampire was waiting for her to do something, to run so he could chase her, or attempt to beat at him, or whatever; but he would not release her gaze, so she stayed rooted to her spot.

The vampire licked the last bit of blood from Joffrey's neck, leering at Sansa as if he'd like to lick her too. She shudders at the image, at once fearful and yet wondering, morbidly, what it would feel like. Joffrey, now dead, is left to crumple ungracefully to the ground. Sansa quickly spared a look at the body, afraid even of the short moment to leave the vampire's eyes, then returned his gaze again, whimpering and cowering in fear that she was next.

She started to lower herself to the ground, as if to make herself into a ball, but the vampire finally moved on her, garbing her shoulders and lifting her up towards him, unbalancing her and causing her to involuntarily crash into him. He seized her with both arms, holding her close, sniffing her.

Shivering in fear, she does nothing to impede him, nothing to help herself, nothing to call for help. She feels him against her, hard, all of him hard. Tears form in her eyes. Perhaps agreeing to Joffrey would have been better. She would have survived that, at least!

The vampire traced Sansa's auburn hair with his nose, crooked and sharp as it was, and then sniffed her neck, which did nothing to soothe her nerves. And then he licked her neck, causing her to whimper, to do something to prevent what was surely unstoppable: "Pl…. pl…ppp…pl…." she stutters.

She feels him looking up from where he was sniffing, looking at her as she stoutly refused to look at him anymore. Surprisingly, though, the vampire gently starts to trace her face, lingering near the bruise Joffrey gave her with his slap; it was a cold hand, but felt nice on her hot injury.

He then grabs her chin and bringing her face towards his. "You should have run." He rasps, "I would have let you."

Gasping, she looks at him in surprise, staring into the depth of grey emotion, unable to work out just what he wants from her. "Shhh… You're all right, Little Bird." He whispers, "So tiny, fearful, fragile… so far from her nest." He caresses her arms, though his hands are far from warm, and grabs her hands in his. Her hands looks so tiny in comparison, yet he handles her delicately, gently placing her small hands upon his broad shoulders, where she feels his coldness, and realizes how stark their temperatures are.

He stares at her, then takes a deep breath again, holding it for far longer then anyone has held his breath around Sansa, and she wonders briefly if he really needs to breathe, dead as vampires are, or if just wants her scent. Is he attracted to her? Could he _want _her in that way? Or is her blood? For the first time since knowing he was a vampire, she wonders if she would survive this encounter. After all, h_e _had just _saved_ her from a rape. Were his intentions more honorable then originally thought? Could a vampire do good deeds?

He looks down at her lips, quivering still, yet as she takes a shaky breath, they slow as he does nothing but stare at her. He looks back at her eyes when she's calm again, and he exhales, slowly, his rank breath of copper and decay do nothing to endear him to her, yet she endures silently. He does not breathe in again, and his own body leans away from her for the first time.

"I won't hurt you." he whispers, just before he leans down and captures her lips. The taste is different the smell is her first thought, more like dark wine then anything else. Her second thought is: _am I really enjoying this? The man who murdered my boyfriend, whose very existence is the stuff of nightmares? _Yet as he sucks upon her bottom lip, and licks at her moistness, she puts up no fight.

And then he leans away from her again, licking at his own lips a smear of blood. Her own blood. She brings a hand from his shoulder to her lips, fingering them, finding the blood and looking at it before returning the vampire's gaze. He smirks at her, rasping, "Delicious."

All to swiftly, fear of death comes full force. He had just enjoyed a taste of her, he would want more: "Don't... don't do this...please, I just..."

He looks at her with anguish, and she trails off. Perhaps he truly didn't mean to drain her dry, and really only paid her a compliment. "I'm sorry." She finished, lamely.

"You'll not have to worry about me anymore, Little Bird, so stop with your chirping." He releases her. Slowly, as if to not startle her. "You smell divine, Little Bird, you've no idea what you do to me." His hand holds her hand last, and he tells her, "I don't kill innocents, though, you have nothing to fear from me."

Just as he's about to let go, she squeezes top retain his attention. "Wait." She says, hardly believing her own words, yet for some reason, she would know more of her strange vampiric savior, "What is your name?"

"What is it to you? Quick now, before I loose all restraint."

Gulping, gathering her resolve, she replies, "I'd know the name of the man who saved me."

He stares at her, incredulous at her request, and she thinks he won't reply, or will have some scathing remark, but eventually, he shakes his head, replying: "Sandor."

"Sandor." Tentatively, Sansa smiles, "I'm Sansa. Sansa Stark. Thank you. For saving me from..." _rape,_ "from him, that is."

He says nothing, only rakes his eyes over her, causing her one last shiver, before he releases her hand and turns towards the shadows of the alley, and out of her life, left intact.

For a few months at least.


	2. The Butcher

**Author's Notes: This is quite a fast update. I don't expect the next chapter to come quite so quickly. Also, there's a lot of background stuff in the first half of this chapter, I'm sorry if it's not as fun to read as the "good stuff". BUT! Let me know what you think!**

**Thanks for all the reviews/favs/followers. :)**

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><p>Vampires were not mythical creatures, they did exist and there was hard proof. There were even training schools for people who wanted to hunt vampires: members of the endangered species list though they were.<p>

Sansa's previous home in Winterfell did have much to do with the undead, preserving the decaying bodies of the zombie nation just north of the border, but vampires were not one of their citizens. Vampires didn't like the cold much: made them turn to blood ice, too stiff to move. Little that Sansa ever paid attention, though, even if some of her family guarded the wall against an invasion.

Even after they had moved to King's Landing, where Vampires were more likely to appear, she had not paid too much attention. But ever since the incident with Joffrey, "vampire" was all she could see/hear/think for the next few weeks. She even looked up on the computer a backlog of articles and reports of local vampire occurrences. She had plenty of time, what with her "post traumatic stress disorder" discharging her from her school duties.

Seemingly, King's Landing, most notably the "Flea Bottom" section, was cursed with a vampire; or blessed, depending on who you asked. According to Sansa's research, Joffrey had been one victim in a long line of such incidents: most others had been charged with a previous crime, or in the middle of one; sometimes both. They ranged from misdemeanors to homicides. A startling percentage of them, spanning ten years of research, revealed that the vampire saved victims of attempted assault/rape.

She thought of the vampire, "Sandor" as he called himself, often. His coldness, his strength, his eyes, the way he talked of restraining himself, and the way he blended into the shadows... she very well could believe all the failed attempts at capturing him were not the police's fault, he was _that _good. He didn't even have to hurt them to get them off his tail. Though they doubled their efforts now to capture him, since Joffrey was the darling son of a prominent family, and she herself was no cheap prize either, Sandor had yet to be cornered, let alone caught a glimpse of.

The police questioned her; once they found out she was the saved victim after running tests on her blood found on his class ring. They called her father up, and he was eager to assist the police, eager despite Joffrey's mother's words that Joffrey wouldn't even hurt a fly.

Sansa had to admit to it all, and it led to more tears then she wished, from herself and her mother. The shame she endured, self brought and inflicted, was hard to bear. But the punishments, they were less then she thought they would be, and the hugs and kisses of her parents, they were the strongest bandages upon her weary soul. Her sister promised to avenge her, despite the fact that Joffrey was no more, and her brothers, as always, made sure to assert their protectiveness.

But ealier, as she sat in the dingy police headquarters answering their inquiries, was when she recalled Sandor's looks and realized how much danger she had been in, without even knowing it. And she had heard some things she never knew before about vampires.

In answer to their questions, she described his eyes, his stature, his strength, and his burns. She blushed when they asked her if she was attracted to him, and though she said no, they told her not to be too ashamed. Vampires, after all, had the ability to attract prey, made them _want _to be near death. More than one vampire slayer fell to their charms...

She claimed she was more fearful than anything else, and they believed her. He was scarred after all: probably negated that special talent. Though one rookie cop, a woman, quipped that the vamp's muscles could probably do it for some; Sansa blushed even more.

A month after the incident, her research slowed to a halt, and she prepared to go back to school. Yet still she noticed the articles in the newspaper. He was not captured; he was not cowed, and continued with his deeds. He killed a college professor this time, as he attempted to do perverted things to a young boy. There's disgust at the world over that, that a smart man with a respectable profession, could fall so far for such... depravity. Then there's a small smile on Sansa's face. Sandor: he was a monster, but only to other monsters.

Another month that goes by and she's almost back to her perky self. Almost. There was one other thing that clouded her happiness from that night: Joffrey. Nothing could erase the sight of seeing Joffrey die in front of her. True, she had conjured every mean thing he had ever done after he died to make herself feel better. But still, she witnessed his death; any death would have done the same. It chills her, and causes her nightmares, no matter how much he may or may not have deserved such.

At times, she remembers their nicer dates, his beauty and gentlemanly behavior, his attentions, his wildness, his promising future. It is those times she hopes Sandor is captured, and when she cries the hardest.

And then one night, Sandor is there. One moment, she's staring into a photo of her and Joffrey; him with his possessive arm around her shoulder, her with a soothing hand on his chest. They laugh, her little sister photo bombs the picture, it covers his rude hand gesture, and Sansa keeps the photo anyway.

Another moment, a shadow falls on the photo frame, throwing Sansa out of her reverie and causing her to gasp. Sandor shoves her to the bed, one hand over her mouth, the other grasping her hip as he leans over her. "Don't scream." he rasps.

She nods, and he slowly releases her. But not before leering at her skimpy clothing, a camisole with short shorts. It was nearing summer after all, and Sansa was used to colder weather...

"Why are you here?" She blurts, stunned that the object of her daily musings has appeared, finally, seemingly out of nowhere.

"Couldn't get you out of me head." He replies, staring at her chest. Abruptly, he turns and looks around her room, stopping every now and then to look at her knicknacks, photos, even her bookshelf.

"I'm… in your head?" She asks.

"Yes. Gods be damned, you ingrained yourself; what with your sweet words, your sweet scent."

There's nothing she can say to that, so she doesn't. Instead, she curls into herself, hugging her legs close and wrapping a bed sheet around her. He finally looks at her again and nods, as if to approve her fear. "Yes, keep the vampire at bay at all costs. He'll hurt you otherwise." He sneers. "I won't hurt you, haven't I said?"

"I know... I mean, this isn't... I'm uncomfortable with you..."

Lifting an eyebrow, he doesn't help her situation at all.

Huffing, she exclaims, "You can't leer at a girl, tell her she 'smells sweet' and expect her to be OK with that!"

Barking a laugh, he nods. "Fair enough: it has been a while since I've talked to a girl, though."

A small smile breaks on Sansa's face, grasping for any normal thing to talk about. "Yeah? How long has it been?"

He thinks about it for a bit, reaching to touch one of her school projects, before he answers, "About a hundred years or so."

Her smile falters. "Oh."

"Yes.'Oh.'"

She contemplates the years he has on her, on any living being, probably only younger then a turtle, unless he was older, and how ridiculous it is that such an old being would come into a high-schooler's room, a silly girl's room. There was not much they could talk about.

"Why me?" she finally asks.

He looks at her, then away, going to the window again and breathing in the night air from outside. She recalls how he had once breathed in a lungful of her scent. Before she can blush at the memory, he answers her, "That night. You thanked me. You wanted my name. You were so close to dying you didn't even know it, and yet you thanked me for your life and you wanted my name." He grabs her windowsill, his knuckles going white, and he leans his chin to his chest. "I have been thanked. Rarely, but it's true. There have been other women, beautiful and sweet smelling, it's true. But no one, not one, has ever asked for my name."

He turns towards her again, and slowly stalks closer again. "I saved a boy recently. I didn't get the same satisfaction saving him as I did you. He looked at me in fear, and I had no chance to tell him I wouldn't hurt him, before he scampered away to hide from me. The police came, and the boy's first statement was to mention me, the monster." He reached Sansa's bed, and leaned down again, causing her to fall back, bed sheet opening up around her. As Sandor settled himself over and around her, he continued: "I have been asking myself for years why I do this. Save the worthless, the needy, and the fearful. They'll all die eventually: I am just a butcher after all, and you all are the meat."

As he continues his story, his eyes leave hers, following his hand as he traces her hair and caresses her cheek. "I had a brother once. He made me thus, and I swore never to be as monstrous as he. When the bastard finally died, the reasons to be partial with my meals became muddled and faint, more so as the years went by."

He grasps her neck, not helping her fears in the least, and looks towards Sansa again, eyes blazing in a fury that seemed... lost, as if he were not really there in the room with her. "Perhaps I should just give in to the vampire instincts. They can't catch me. They're all afraid of me. They'd best leave me, or I'd kill them. And you! You _girl_, had best stop being so..." And he leans down further, pinning her down with hands, chest, and pelvis, making his hardened member quite known to her.

"Perfect." He rasps.

She gasps. She doesn't know what to do with this information, with the fact that she's a temptation, or why he believes her perfect. She's just a teenager, trying to earn good grades and make her parents happy. Tears start to fall from her face, and then she's jolted even more when she feels sharp fangs scraping along her neck. Not enough to break the skin, but she shudders in fear.

And arousal: she knows not why, but his member and his teeth awake something within her she hadn't felt since Joffrey had kissed her: wanting. He feels deliciously hard, a promise of pleasure, even as the knowledge of possible death lingers near. She remembers it is a talent of vampires, to lure in their prey.

Surprisingly, she then feels, instinctively, that Sandor had the same ailment, an attraction that he did not want. It is not knowledge, but a tingling sensation: "You won't hurt me." She whispers. At once, Sandor stops his movements. She moves her previously immobile hands from her sides to his chest, and gently pushes at him.

He complies with her body language, just as easily as he could have ignored it, and moves away. "No, Little Bird." he states dejectedly, "I won't hurt you."

And he leaves her for the second time, still alive. Confused and scared, but alive: for a few months more, at least.


	3. Help Me

A new school year has started. Summer comes and goes without hearing anything from her savior, or reading about vampires in the news.

The fear of society passes, and she starts to hang out with her friends again, though it is always daylight and crowded when she does. The fear of boys passes, and she becomes good friends with unlikely candidates, searching for kindness before beauty. (The short Tyrion always making her laugh with his wit; the crippled Willas always making her feel like she exists as he asks her opinions; the effeminate Loras making her feel beautiful as he harmlessly flirts with her.)

A birthday passes, and Sansa is now Sweet Sixteen, as well as "sweet smelling". It makes her smile and wonder if _he_ has passed from her life forever, if she'll never see himagain. Then, all of sudden, she does.

She's studying at her desk when he reaches around to silence her surprise, and holds her to him. Her heart beats fast, fluttering in fear; this is almost exactly how Joffrey was held as he died.

"Little Bird," Sandor rasps, sniffing at her hair, and any doubt about who it is fades away. She calms down a bit, yet he stays where he is. "Help me." He whispers.

Before she can ask how or why, he gently pulls at her, maneuvering her to stand, pulling her closer with her back flush to his chest. "I ran away." He tells her. "I fled to Essos. I had my fill. And do you know? They were all thieves and murderers: scum of the earth." He keeps his one arm around her shoulders, using the other to pet her hair, to move it aside and then yank, forcing her to present her neck to him.

"I met a slayer." He kisses her neck, right at the pulse point, and she grabs at his arm, whimpering. "And all of a sudden, it did not matter who I killed, only that I did." He licks her; she jerks, ineffectual as it is, and he hardens his grasp.

"I fought for my life. I won." He scraps his teeth along her neck again, jutting his hips forward and trapping her between the desk and him, making her aware just how aroused he was no matter how many layers of cloth separate them. "I went for my reward." His arm around her shoulders moves down, caressing her collarbone just above the hem of her tank top, "She was a strong slayer, she was a worthy warrior, she was my blood type," he cupped a breast over her shirt and bra, squeezing and chuckling darkly at her moan. "She never asked who I killed, if I was repentant, she did not know me nor had any desire to do so: no mercy for the vampire... So no mercy for the slayer..."

Sansa is unable to fight the feelings arising in her body: the flood of lust fueled by her inexperience, his hunter's lure; the feelings of fear that ebbed beneath the flow, that he truly meant to devour her in the truest sense of lovers and hunters, the fear that even if he did intend for her to live, he'd go too far.

Yet she still thought to know why he was here. Her curiosity, all but buried beneath the torrent, still lingered because of his words. He sounded... desperate... despite the story he was telling her, the cold way he spoke. "What..." She breaks into a moan as he snakes his hand down her stomach, tries again, "What do you want of me?"

"Ah, yes," He rasps against her neck, "I asked for help, didn't I?" He fingers the hem of her shorts, glides over them and down. "I did not claim my reward from the slayer bitch. She lives. The reason... still eludes me. Remind me."

He cups her womanhood over her pajama shorts, causing her to cry out in surprise. Her brain is muddled, yet she remembers once he had told her his rule, and grasps at the straw: "Innocents!" She gasps out, and when he stills his hand upon her crotch, she tells him, "You don't hurt innocents." His hands, both, lose their intensity; though seem reluctant to let go. He travels along her side with one, raising it up and around her waist. The one in her hair lets go, causing her to sigh in relief, almost purring as he cradles her head gently, soothing the sting of pulled hair. "You won't hurt me." She murmurs, almost unaware she's said it.

"No." He confirms, "I won't." He kisses her neck, and she hums appreciatively, closing her eyes in enjoyment, hugging the arms that hug her. "Don't be afraid, Little Bird." He whispers.

She opens her eyes, wants to ask _what_? Then, _OH! _She flexes her fingers against him, digging nails into unfeeling skin, yet the sharp sting on her neck quickly fades to a burn as he removes his fangs. Warm liquid falls down her neck, which Sandor laves at, a cold tongue upon her fevered neck. Her eyes flutter close again, blood pounding in her ears and warmth spreading from her chest up to inflame her cheeks.

Sucking at her neck, once, he groans behind her. "So good." He rasps, grasping to uphold her tightly as she loses the will to stand, knees buckling with the loss of iron. Chastely, his kisses her neck once more, licking a final time, telling her she's delicious. Slowly, he releases her, twisting her around and lifting, knees and neck supported by strong arms, and he carries her across the room.

She looks up to him for the first time that night. The sight of her blood dripping from his lips shock her, but his eyes, dark and brooding, hold no malice towards her. Instead, they look dead: he is fading from the world. She feels the urge to help him, as he had once done for her, to show him that there were still reasons within his life worth fighting for, worth remembering. She didn't know what they were, she was still learning them for herself, but perhaps she still could help, in some small way.

Reaching up, she fingers his scars: he lets her. "Don't forget. Please, Sandor, don't forget about the innocents, about your honor. You aren't a monster you're a man. You are a good man."

He stays silent for a while, body standing still and eyes boring into hers. "I'm loosing..." He rasps, he chokes, he begs. "I'm failing...I... I don't know how..."

Sansa shushes him. It feels right, to comfort him; though later she will spend days wondering at the power she has over him: the power to help him, or damn him. The power to redeem, or ignore; his future lay in her hands.

"It's OK," she whispers, even though they both know it is far from such. "Come to me. When it gets too much, too hard: visit me. I won't ... I won't shun you."

"You don't know what you ask, Little Bird." He growls, anger seeping in a bit again, "What happens if I do fail, and come to you afterwards? What then? Will you truly not judge me? I'm a vampire; it is only a matter of time before I give in, all the way, and then you'll just be another victim." He more or less tosses her down to her bed, stiffly standing at the side in fury.

"No," Sansa whispers with an edge, refusing to back down, "I won't."

They stare at each other, and then he nods at her determination. "We're both fools." He muses, "But better fools then monsters."

Kneeling beside the bed, he caresses her neck, right where he bit her, and leans down for a proper kiss. Again, he tastes of a sour dark wine, even if the smell is much worse; Sansa leans up willingly into the kiss, opening her mouth and battling tongues with him. In some ways, it is a more heady feeling then when she was losing blood: he is dominant, bruising; always nipping at her lips or tongue, then sucking the bite afterwards, soothing the hot pain. More then one moan of hers fills the silence of her room, yet he never goes further then kissing her mouth, or caressing her face.

With a last swipe of his tongue, he releases her, placing his forehead upon hers and fingering her cheek as if it were breakable glass; "We will try your way." He growls, a hint of his restraint breaking through, before leaving her, the night reasserting itself as life continued, uninterrupted, for a few days more.


	4. Guilty and Deranged

**Author's Notes:**** This is has a sexual scene, and while this is already rated "M", I feel like I should warn the readers further: this does involve a vampire, and what do vampires do? Morbid blood sex scene. (which may or may not be inspired by a movie scene somewhere)**

**I will leave it at that, but be forewarned! **

**and then enjoy, if that doesn't stop you :D**

**Also, this chapter has been in the works since the beginning, but I originally thought there would be a few intervening chapters. They were boring to me, and I especially don't like writing dialogue. In conclusion, I believe time gaps are what's going to save this story. I believe I cover everything that's important with a few words here and there, so I think I've committed to more time jumps. So say goodbye to standard timeline story telling. And then enjoy some more :)**

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><p>Teeth, sharp and piercing, scrap along her neck.<p>

Fingers threaded in her hair, and fingers in her core; but what were fingers when his _fangs _were teasing her? How could one describe the feeling of having a predator's weapon close in upon your life source, yet not go for the kill? Moaning, Sansa arches against him begging, pleading, needing more.

Sandor obliges, but not as much as she'd like. He moves to her breasts, kissing one, suckling at it, pulling at it, scraping it, all with his tantalizing teeth, before moving to the other. She holds him to her, warm fingers against his oily cold scalp. He groans against her breast, vibrations spurning her heartbeat.

Her hips buck with need, not nearly as filled as she wants, though she cannot say what it is exactly that she craves. His fingers, in her, against her, rhythmically pumping, are a torture that make her go mad. "Please..." she pleads, drawing it out, moaning it loud, "Please!"

Cold hands trail her body, tracing where he has bitten, soothing the burns, gently guiding her to spread her legs. They hold her down, a vampire lover's cold shackles that her hips struggle against, but without any real intent to escape.

_His head, gods he gives her head! _She gasps with shock as he bites the inside of one thigh, and she quivers, the subconscious fear coming out despite her complete trust in this undead man. He sucks, laps, and kisses the burn on her thigh, rasping in between that she's all right.

And then, he follows through, thrusting his tongue in her. She yelps, jumping in the bed, fighting with joy against his restraints. She has never felt so... unh! It is so overwhelming, she hardly knows whether she is in her room, or in heaven.

So overpowering, yet it is not enough. Something crawls towards her, something builds, something teases her at the edge of her very reason, and sanity. "Please! I need..!" _What is it that she needs?_ "I... I..."

One of his hands goes to her stomach, splaying his fingers and calming her crazed fluttering. His other hand retreats to her womanhood, stroking where his tongue is also, and he thrusts them in again.

The shock of cold fingers cause a loud gasp to escape her lips, and he doesn't let up, pumping them in over and over again, and though he is doing all the work, she pants, gyrating her hips, begging, pleading, needing more.

And then he bites her clit, bringing the elusive climax to scream out her mouth.

Her next conscious thought is, _"I can't breath, I can't breath, I can't breath", _panting as the throws of pleasure recede gently, the high of pleasure not fading towards disgust or guilt, but to satiation.

Opening her eyes, she watches him, her lover, her vampire, her Sandor; he crawls up to her face, looking to make sure she is OK. Cold fingers trail her cheek, silently questioning. Swallowing her pants, calming her body, she grabs his hand, and offers a smile. A small one that grows in confidence then becomes a laugh as she feels herself blush.

He smirks, and then leans down to kiss her. Warm, tangy, soft: the best kiss they have shared, in her recollection.

She reaches for his cock, but he grabs her wrist first, saying, "No, you've done more then enough, Little Bird. Wouldn't want you to wear yourself out."

The meaning of his words does not fully materialize until later, after his final caress and shadow leaves her college dorm room. She feels lightheaded, happy, and thinks the only thing to make it better would be a bubble bath.

She watches the froth turn red, contemplating that he in fact did take from her all that he wanted, that for a vampire her blood is more desirable, more orgiastic, then her wetness.

He had explained such to her once, sometime during their many talks in the intervening years; blood being the cause for 'reproduction' rather then sex. Blood was their food, the life source, their means of survival; individually and as a race.

Lazily, she smiles, swirling a finger amongst the small whorls of blood that pooled from her, from all his vampire kisses: her neck, her breasts, her thigh, and, yes, perhaps the most morbid, her bundle of nerves. And she does not feel guilt anymore for not pleasuring him as she assumed he would want.

She feels relief. _Is this wrong?_

In the back of her mind she fleetingly worries about poison, like from a snake's fang, swirling amongst the blood and water, that might have made her woozy, pleasured, drugged upon his pleasure, to allow him to touch her thus, without her being afraid, or disgusted. But no, she cannot deny she still feels satisfied, and recalled he had soothed her before he had even bitten her once that night. Caressing her, gently talking to her with his calm rasp, always on the watch for her discomfort... shivering in the warm water as she recalls him stripping her of clothing, she realizes she would do it again, gladly.

_What would her mother say?_

And, of course she recalls only now she scolds herself, he once told her a vampire had a presence, not a poison, which called to his or her prey, and once out of sight, victims (if still alive) would again regain their fear.

Still, she feels no fear._ Is something wrong with me?_

Her eyes drift close, the heat of the water soothing her as the soap tingles the bites, most especially the one at the apex of her thighs. Leaning her head back upon the edge of the bathtub, she idly wonders if she has gone deranged. A normal human girl of legal age from a wealthy family who could ask for nothing more should not have a rapport with an undead man more suited for a gothic girl. Snorting, causing a fluff of bubbles to float, she feels the irony of her thoughts.

There is no "normal", and perhaps said imaginary goth girl wouldn't be caught dead (pun intended) with a vampire in the first place. Sansa knew she shouldn't assume such.

Since Joffrey had attempted to rape her, she had been defending herself against assumptions. _It has been days/months/years since the 'incident'; you should be better by now. _A classic, she thinks. _Everything is the same, as before, why don't you want to go shopping like we have before? _Ugh. And her current favorite: _Why would a rich girl like you, pretty enough to marry into a set life, want to study to be a nurse? That's for poor girls._

They shouldn't assume anything about her, and Sansa... well she guesses she shouldn't assume anything about how she was loved, only be happy that she was.

Sansa shook her head in memory; happy she is no longer friends with the ones who had voiced those "concerns". Her current bunch of missed-matched friends is far better, and her family is proud of her as well, no matter what she decides to do. And when she did relapse with fear and depression, they didn't condemn her as "seeking attention". She only regrets not introducing Sandor to the ones who loved her thus.

That's about the only guilty thing she feels these days.

Deciding she'd rather feel guilty, and deranged, then without Sandor's contradictorily protective presence, she sighs and fully accepts what had just happened. She caresses the bite wounds with a loofah, feeling their tenderness, remember his tenderness, wanting more, and not caring how morbid it might seem, even to herself.

Because "Vampire" was also a stereotype that she sometimes mistakenly put Sandor into, and she shakes her head to rid it of that thought. He is Sandor, who happened to be a vampire, not the other way around... He saved her, he talks to her, he respects her, and he treats her well, in his own way. He is the best boyfriend (can she even all him that?) she ever had, and only regrets he isn't the kind to bring home to meet the parents.

And she is Sansa, gorgeous but reserved, preppy but nerdy, afraid but courageous; a woman of many contradictions, convictions, who would not turn away the man who not only saved her, but who came to her for his own saving. He wasn't there just to have her, or to give of himself. Never had she thought she would be the one to hold a vampire's hand, to chase away _his _nightmares; but now that she is, she isn't going to give it up, isn't going to turn him away. That's what friends do for each other. That's what lo...

Sansa stills within the bathtub, loofah poised over her shoulder, and the startling revelation strikes her immobile:

_That's what lovers do._


	5. Sandor's Maker

**Author's Notes:**** Wow. Sorry for the delay. But then, all my stories have been on an impromptu hiatus. oops. Anyway, the next few chapters were actually written backwards (as I had inspiration for a certain situation, but not how we got there...), with this one last, and therefore why this took a while to post. **

**This chapter, and the next two I think, are the plot/backbone/history of the story, and so the heavy smut will take a back burner for now... I hope it is enjoyed! **

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><p>Sansa panted upon her bed, naked and coming down from another orgasmic high, courtesy of her vampiric lover. Could Sandor even be called a "lover"? After all, they had not gone "all the way" yet, and he had never allowed her to please him with her body, only with her blood.<p>

He had assured her many times that it was all he needed, that the blood was euphoric enough for him.

Recently however, she started to worry. Was there something wrong with her for Sandor to hold off from making love to her? As Sandor, clad only in black boxers, climbs up her bed, over her, licking some trails of missed blood, before wrapping her in his arms, she recalls that it is only the fourth time this year that he has visited her. And it is almost the end of the fall semester! Wrapping her arms around Sandor, she works up the courage to voice her concerns. "Why haven't you come more often, Sandor? Am I not... good enough for you?"

He chuckles, and it rumbles pleasantly against her chest. She takes comfort in that, and in his words: "You are so fucking perfect, Little Bird, there is no doubt that you could please me." He kisses her smile, frowning when he stops, "It is I that worry about being good for you; do you really want a vampire in your life? As a friend? As more? I sully you every time I visit, and touch you."

Sansa shakes her head no, "Don't talk like that!" A little bit of anger flared through her. How dare he demean what they have? It might not be a lot, but damn it if it isn't more then himthat has a choice in anything! "I don't see you as a vampire, Sandor, I see you as my friend. And besides, this relationship works both ways. I _want _you here, I _want _you to feel free to talk to me, to come to me, to..." and here she blushes, "touch me."

Sandor strokes her cheek, not interrupting as his Little Bird chirps her demands.

"Despite what you might think, you don't 'sully' me every time you visit, you make me happy. Happier then you realize. Do you know what I am like when you are not around? I am merely a shell of myself. I have everything I need: friends, family, purpose; but when you are around, then and only then, am I truly complete. The rest is meaningless without you."

"You don't know what you are saying..."

"No! But I do!" She grabs at his hand, holding it firmly, "I want you to come more often. Please, I know you wait for the times when you can no longer be strong, but visit more often, please! I have no way of telling you that my strength wanes when you are gone. I've missed you this past year."

Sandor closes his eyes, looking like he wants to deny her, but unable to go through it. Sansa presses her forehead against his, "Is it me? Is this... getting old?"

His eyes snap open, incredulous. "What? How could you ask that? I already said you are perfect, what other words could you want?"

Sansa lowered her eyes from his intensity. "You are centuries old, and I am a silly girl. How can I compete with time, with the myriad of women you have had?"

"Silly Little Bird," he rasps affectionately, grasping her chin to bring her gaze towards his, "You know you are the only woman I have had a relatively functional relationship with, have you not connect the dots?" When she does not answer, he chuckles, "Gods, you are naive." He kisses her, short and sweet, before continuing to reassure her. "All those women I've had? Unwilling. As a vampire at least. Most of them were thieves or harlots, myabe both, on the wrong side of the law. I took their blood, and took their bodies, mercilessly, until they lay dead or dying."

He wiped a few stray tears from her face, "You are more to me then just blood, Sansa. You give me tenderness, understanding, and a lifeline to who I was, who I want to be. No other woman could do that, or ever tried, and this," he gestures between them, "is very new." He kissed her forehead, "I could never tire of it." He kissed her nose, "Nor of you." And he kissed her lips, "And I beg of all that is good that you will not be damned because of me."

Sandor sighs, leaning down further, burying his head against Sansa's stomach, taking comfort from her scent since the time had come for him to speak of his past. "I told you once, when we shared childhood stories, that I was once a stable boy. I was as innocent as you are now, Little Bird, a pup before he was ravaged and burned. I, too, was once content, peaceful, if a bit impatient for life to start happening."

Sandor paused, stroking Sansa's sides in memory of another, "My first, the one I lost my 'innocence' to, was the only other woman I have ever had that was willing. Well, she was hardly a woman by today's standards, and I was only four and ten, I remember that.

"I do not recall her name, only that she was like a field of wheat; straw colored hair, healthy tanned skin, and sky blue eyes. Eyes a shade lighter then yours, Little Bird. I remember that she was a kitchen hand; it was summer, and lust filled the air that stagnant, but beautiful, afternoon, and she seduced me, much like she seduced many other servants of the keep. But she was nice, never bedded a married man, and taught me many things I have, for the most part, forgotten, that one lazy summer afternoon."

He gripped Sansa's shirt, the only sign of his anger, even centuries later. "Gregor, my older brother, he never shared anything with me. I never complained, because even then we were not close, and I felt no desire to be so. However, he decided he wanted to share the woman with me, whether I complied or no. But she, well, she also had no choice. I don't actually know if she was at first willing or not for Gregor, I only know that after he raped her, and it can only ever be rape with him, she was found dead amongst the dogs of the kennel."

Sandor paused again, taking a few moments to reign in his ancient fury. "I did not love her," he rasped, unable to hide his emotions, "but one could say that was when I lost my naiveté, that it was then that all Gregor's hurt added up just then into something I could handle no more. Not even when he turned me into a vampire, nor shoved me in the sun, did I hate him as much as when we were actually alive.

"And the terrible thing is, is that kitchen wench was just the starting point. Gregor killed our whole family, all before he was knighted." He smirked wryly at Sansa, "He and I both were taking as squires by our lord's knights, seeing as how strong we were, how large we grew, even as pre-teens." Sandor frowned again, "Gregor was truly a monster long before he was damned."

"I still have not felt peace over the loss of my father, my sister, or even of the maid. It seems pointless coming from me, a soulless immortal of all people, but I did not even gain peace from ending Gregor's life. No, an old Dornish Prince was the one who finally finished Gregor; poisoned his own blood that, when consumed by the monster that was my brother, ended both of them. It's ironic, since it was a young Dornish Prince that hurt Gregor enough for him to seek the aid of vampirism to continue living..."

He looked up to Sansa again, coming to the present once more. He stroked her cheek again; glad she had not turned away from him in disgust. "After the girl's death, I promised myself that I would never be like _him_. I never gained knighthood, I never raped, I never sired more vampires, and I never drank of the innocent. When he killed my family, I promised fratricide; even if I failed in that, I surely was successful in stopping his legacy."

Sansa was about to add her two cents, to sympathize, to offer comfort, but Sandor shushed her, placing his finger tips over her lips. He smiled wanly at her, and finished, "Misery loves company, and so did Gregor. Callously, he destroyed many lives, and damned just as many souls as well. Virgins were his favorites. I try and never do what he has done, not even centuries after he is gone. You will be safe from me, Sansa, no matter what you say or do."

There was nothing Sansa could say. She only hugged Sandor to her again, comforting him in the only way she knew how. His head buried into her neck again, and she smoothed his hair, and rubbed his back, humming once or twice.

After a time, she leaned back, bringing Sandor's face to hers. She kissed him, still faintly tasting of her blood on his lips. "Thank you for telling me this, Sandor." She said, "I'd like to think that you are wrong, though. I don't feel like I'm damned when I am around you."

Sandor groaned, pulling away from Sansa and laying back on the bed with his arm over his face.

Sansa leaned over him, refusing to allow him to put space between them. "Forget it." She soothed him, "I can change your mind another time." After Sandor snorted, Sansa laid her head on his chest. "Can you tell me more about your family?" She asked.

It took a few minutes, but Sandor opened up to her once more, sharing more stories of his childhood, and new, happy, anecdotes of his father and sister. They did not revisit the subject of their relationship, but once again, Sansa had brought a measure of peace into Sandor's existence.


	6. Breakup

**Author's Notes:**** I realize this is extremely short and leaves us hanging, and for that reason, the next chapter will be updated in less then 24 hrs. It is already uploaded into my "doc manger", ready to go (and much longer). The two chapters compliment each other, with our duo's point of views, but I still felt they needed to stay separate. I know I have not updated faithfully, and after the next chapter, there might be another delay. So sorry! (Are there any original readers still reading?) Thanks for the patience! (And for reading/reviewing/following/fav-ing)**

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><p>Sansa sobbed heart-brokenly into her pillow, cradled against her in poor substitution of any real comfort. She screamed against it, wailed into its fluffy depths so that her fellow dorm mates would not hear her.<p>

And things had being going so well...

_"What a stupid Little Bird you are: you and you humans' fanciful tales of loving vampires and their human 'soul mates'." _Sandor had sneered at her earlier. _"I _can't _marry you, I _can't _grow old with you, I cannot fucking give you children!" _

Hiccups break forth, chest hurting with the force, the pain, air failing to relieve her body. Never had she thought Sandor would be the one to hurl hateful words at her. He was not in the wrong, but did it have to come out so ... so foul?

_"My body is DEAD! Nothing within me lives. My ... my fucking cum is worthless in your cunt!" _

_"Stop! Stop it! Please... Sandor, stop!" She had pleaded pounding on his chest, begging him to understand her, to listen, to stop with his cruel diatribe._

But he did not stop, grabbing her flailing wrists and destroying whatever dreams she had that featured them together, forever:

_"Sansa," she flinched when he did not use her endearing nickname, "You are too pure for that life, and it would destroy you. I'd destroy you."_

Silence had followed that statement, a void of happiness that stretched the eons of heartbeats. And then he kept going, making it worse._  
><em>  
><em>"I won't curse you to this life, Sansa, you deserve so much better..." She had stared at him in agony, tears falling down her cheeks, but through her sorrow, she saw his bloody tears tracking down as well. It was the only hint of his dreams being shattered as well. "I don't deserve you." He whispered.<em>

_"I only wanted to share my dreams with you..." She replied, equally defeated, cursing herself for thinking she could change his mind._

_"And I cannot fulfill them, Li... Sansa. Vampires are not able to create new. We only take what is old, and turn it into something monstrous, and that is our greatest ecstasy. Adoration, love, fucking: it's all for nothing. Nothing! Do you hear me? Nothing..." He finished, finally calm again. _

_But she saw his anguish, his own pain hidden within the anger, belying the insinuation that she meant nothing to him. Pain that was not enough to change his mind and that made it all the more worse._

_"I have already done too much. I shouldn't have... the first time I ever saw you... gods but you are my own temptation. I can't... I can't bring you down to hell with me." He turned away from her, stepping to the dormitory window for his usual exit, if a lot earlier than normal. He hesitated, and then choked out some parting words, "Find another man for your dreams, Sansa."_

That was only a few hours ago, last night in fact, and she had not slept. Indeed, she had not stopped crying. It was so abrupt, so unexpected, and because of that, it was doubly cruel. There was no warning, no hints, at first, that he did not want to continue their relationship or friendship.

_"I graduate in a few months, Sandor."_

_"Aye? And what will happen next?" _

Such a hopeful statement, a curious question; neither of them had talked of the future before, and neither had been prepared for the negative outcome. With every utterance of her half thought of plans, a new shadow fell on Sandor's face. Sansa was not even given the chance to say that her thoughts were not in stone, that she would listen to his of fantasies of family and love, she should have stuck to the basics, and only said: "I want us to stay together, no matter what." Instead:

_"I'll apply to a few hospitals, find an internship somewhere. I hear some places have voluntary donors for Vampires._ _Then we can work on us..."_

_"What about 'us' needs working?"_

She should have said, "Nothing".

_"I want to bring you to meet my parents, my family. Then, maybe, we could work on our own?"_

And then the shit hit the fan.

_"What a stupid Little Bird you are..."_


	7. Sign Post

**"Nosferatu" has a major/minor inspiration for this chapter. There is a book in the movie, and there is a book here. I obviously changed things, but the whole "willing virgin/maid" thing came from the movie. Obviously, there are inspirations from other sources throughout this whole thing, too many to mention or recall at times... BUT Nosferatu is a main inspiration here. Which is funny since that movie was illegally made (whoops). **

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><p>The sculpture of a Seven-Pointed Star was old, humble in its materials of wood and iron, anonymous with no artist's name attached, and dull without jewels. It was so far removed from what Sandor knew of Seven-Pointed Stars belonging to the Faith of the Seven, that he did not know it for a religious icon at first, and had stared at the old, worn, unassuming thing with a critical eye before making the connection.<p>

Realizing the star for what it was, he straightened up and nonchalantly walked away, as if embarrassed that he had been enraptured by a religious symbol. Then berating himself for acting the fool, he turned back to look once more, knowing _she _would have liked it.

He currently roamed Dorne, an inhospitable place as far as vampires were concerned, but Sandor relished the pain, a physical agony to match the one in his heart, if he were to admit to such a thing. It was currently the dead of night, and that was saying much in a land where the sun was out most of the day, and gone completely for only four hours. Sandor would have to retreat to a shelter in roughly two hours, he surmised.

It was welcome, though. Aside from the pain, he rarely had to think since he was asleep for twenty hours a day. Such was a blessing for a vampire who recently fell, and fell hard, for an innocent human.

Four hours was long enough to allow him the pleasure of thinking about her, to remember her heat, her skin, her smell, her _taste! _And just before self-loathing would set in, or regret, he'd have to find a suitable sleeping place, and forget about her for another twenty hours.

Assuming, of course, that his dreams were not filled with images of _her: 'Sansa', _he thought, _'Little Bird, fly away free...'_

That last night together, how ever many moons ago, he had wanted more of her than ever. As he had pushed his fingers into her, felt her breathy moans, timed her pants and gasps with relish, fed of her life blood from her breasts as slowly as possible to prolong his own pleasure, and ease her pain; as he did all that, he thought of what was next. Perhaps they would cuddle? Or he would tell her another anecdote about his sister...

Satisfied with her mere presence alone, he stopped nipping her breasts, licking away lingering blood drops and raising up over her, watching her ecstasy mount, crest, and fade. The vampire had known eyes of lust, satisfaction, and desire; but her bright blue eyes shone with something more, something he instinctively knew he reflected, something that was dangerous in a way that only distance and abstinence could cure. If _she _was lucky; he never could be saved.

Sandor loved her, and acknowledged it to himself at that point in time. But he knew... he knew he had to let her go. And so long as her happiness and health were assured, he could happily open his hands and allow the Little Bird her freedom to fly, explore, _live. _He would not be the cause of her damnation; he would, to the best of his ability, save her from hell.

Sansa had though him angry, disgusted with her human ways and silly dreams. Ah, but he was far from it. He had been so close to thinking those very things, wanting as she had, for a future to be shared. Instead, he shunned them, and her, harshly, so that Sansa could turn away from his coarseness.

And since he was already damned, he let himself think of her those four hours the sun shied away from Dorne. He let himself wander the sands that burned his body, and the memories that burned his soul, secure that one would physically keep him from harming innocents, and the other would keep him from forgetting who he is, and what he wants to be.

Digging out change from his pockets, he wandered to where the postcards were displayed. He looked for one that caught his eye, one he hoped the receiver might like, letting him contact her once in a while to somehow keep in touch, even if she could not reply. Dorne was vast and vague; not even a nondescript picture of an anonymous sculpture could tell her where he was. And he moved, constantly, from sand village to sand village.

Not paying attention to his surroundings, he lays the correct change (estimating for taxes) on the counter and turns away from the kiosk.

"The Seven thank you for your contribution, brother." A deep, calm voice sounds.

Startled, he whips back to face the stall that he had thought carelessly left open.

"Fear not, vampire," the broad shouldered monkish looking man spoke, "you are in no danger here."

Taking no chances, Sandor stalks closer, taking in the fact that he cannot smell the man, nor hear his heartbeat, til he is actually within the small confines of the kiosk. Grabbing the holy man's neckline and pulling him close, taking a whiff of the very much alive man, Sandor snarls, "How?"

The man has the audacity to chuckle, raising his hands in surrender as Sandor shakes him in impatience, finally answering, "I used to be a slayer, vampire. I know your kind: how to detect, hunt, and defend myself. This is but a prayer of concealment that shrouds this small box from your awareness." He gestures amicably around him, "The Smith is strong within these humble walls."

Growling, Sandor shoves the elder man back into his chair, "And why have you not taken the chance, and be done with it?"

Straightening his plain brown robes, the holy man turns a reproachful glance upon Sandor, "It is not every day a demon of the night pays for trivial things... My robes would thank you if you repaid my kindness with a gentler approach."

Sandor huffs, turns and makes to stride away. Words stall him, "And do you pray to the Stranger to die, vampire, that you question why I don't slay you? That you live, almost quaintly, within the most dangerous country for your kind?"

"Stop calling me 'vampire.'" Sandor demands, a vision of Sansa telling him time and again that he is still a man floating through his mind. "My name," Sandor snarls, turning back to the monk, "is Sandor!"

Contritely, the holy man nods, "I did not know, or else I would have used it." He stares into Sandor's eyes, "They call me 'Elder Brother', and I help the Septons in the humble Sept dedicated to the 'Crone', most humble of the Seven and patron of wanderers. Why do _you _wander here, Sandor?"

"None. Of your. Business." And Sandor moves to walk away again.

"Whom do you send postcards to?"

No answer.

Fading to a whisper behind him, "Your soul can be saved, vampire!"

In a blink, the neck is in vice like grip. "And what would you know, _brother?" _Sandor snarls, "Five hundred plus years, I have _wandered _this gods forsaken world, and not once have I received salvation, or help, or a fucking answer to any of my god damned questions! So who the fuck! Do you think you are?!"

The Elder Brother just takes it all, not even bothering to fight against the angry vampire, knowing, despite his relative youth of sixty years, that Sandor is still a soul crying out in the dark. Calmly, he stares into Sandor's eyes, willing the sad creature who once was a man to find the courage to believe in something greater. "I know enough." He finally spoke, rasping through the near choke hold he is in, "I know my wife and child were killed by one such as you." The grip on him loosens, and he can speak clearer, "I know vengeance is a poor cause to live for. I know answers are hard to come by and even harder to hear.

"But I think you already have an answer of some kind, don't you? You spoke false when you said you had nothing from the gods." He nods his head towards the vampire's other hand, "Who is the postcard for?"

Sandor releases the Elder Brother, gingerly grasping the slim paper as if it were something more than that. "A friend." he finally admits, not sure why he does so, but the holy man had unsettled him enough, more than thought possible, that he felt the man worthy of answers.

"Another vampire?" The Elder Brother gently queries.

Still staring at the card, Sandor replies, "No. Human. A girl, barely a woman."

Chuckling, earning himself another glare, the Elder Brother clasps Sandor's shoulder. "That sounds like an interesting story in the making. Come, I have drink we can share." Thus saying, he gestures Sandor to follow him into holy ground. Sandor hesitates, before feeling a protective aura surround him by the Elder Brother's quick prayer, this time against the gods' wrath.

* * *

><p>"I left her," Sandor spoke, near the end of his life's tale he shared with the Elder Brother, "I could not give her children; I could not bear the thought of her married to another, so I ... left." He contemplates the postcard still in his hand, her name and address written out, "I thought the memories of her would be enough, such as memories of my brother lingering throughout the centuries. They only haunt me, make me feel guilt, and disgust. What am I, to a pure woman? How dare I think for one moment of my worthiness?"<p>

The small kitchen that vampire and man sat in was quiet. Most nights in Dorne were quiet, but for Sandor, venting his emotions, it was an accepting quiet, an unobtrusive, understanding, please-take-your-time quiet. The Elder Brother had opened a bottle of dark red wine, and Sandor, accepting, thought it close in taste to an elderly male that he enjoyed it enough. It would not sustain him, but somehow, the act of drinking together opened him to the strange holy man seated across from him.

"It was her fault for the longest time. She wanted children, a future, for me to meet her parents: all the things I could not give. But it was I who ingrained myself into her life... I was always near, asking for her help, never saying 'no' to her... it's my own fault for feeding into her own fantasies as much as feeding my own.

"But it can never happen. I am a killer, and I relish in it." He pauses, looks towards the brother, finding only an open face. And then Sandor tries to explain his nature, as if defending himself. "It is only natural for vampires; it's what keeps us alive, and what swells our numbers. What animal doesn't do the same?

"It's different only that we used to be something more, something alive... We try to keep our human roots, we try to kill sparingly, or judgmentally, or of animals. Do you know how ridiculous that is? You wouldn't infuse a dying man with horse's blood, would you? No! It's not compatible. Human blood only..." He mockingly saluted with the dry Dornish wine, taking a sip before continuing.

"We try to remember that which made us happy, or sad: either one. We try to make attachments, to have our soul safe for heaven, but fail. We get so hungry, we just want to live." He gestures off to a fictional distance, "There's a person over there, ripe, sweet smelling, the richest waft of life just waiting to be eaten. I'll only take a little; a man can give up a pint of blood without serious injury.

"I'll only drink a pint. Gods! It tastes so good! I haven't had anything to eat for DAYS! And before we know it, the human is dead.

"I'll do better next time. Then the next. Soon, I leave a trail of broken bodies behind. I only have the consolation that they were criminals.

"Then the severity of the crime lessens and lessens as my hunger increases and increases. Then I remember, I'll live forever, and these poor blood sacks will die eventually. It's only natural for me to kill. Who knows what that sad sonofabitch would have done with his sorry life? Mayhap nothing, mayhap everything; I don't know and it's not my job to know! If nature did not want me to survive, why did she give me urges to live, desires to eat, lusts for blood? I shouldn't have to worry about my next meal, so I slowly think about just grabbing the next meal, innocent or not, and devouring.

"The slow descent to depravity, Brother," Sandor spoke, defeated, "I've described it in less than five minutes, but it takes more than five hundred years. Do you not see how the thought of Gregor was not enough, was never enough_?" _

A moment of silence follows that sad tale, before a flicker of hope shines within Sandor's eyes.

"But Sansa; Gods, she is enough to make me want to starve to death, and enjoy it. If there was physically no way of me being around her, I could live thousands of years on her memory alone, honoring her. But... she's alive: so close. There is nothing stopping me from traveling to her... claiming her, keeping her, and loving her till death. Perhaps beyond that, too." He put his head in his hands, hope dispelling, "Gods, why can't this new temptation leave me!?"

The Elder Brother put a hand on Sandor's hand, "Perhaps it is not temptation that pulls you to her, but a destiny? Perhaps you and her are meant to be together, that your souls are drawn to each other?"

"The fuck, brother?" Sandor incredulously asked, looking up to meet the man's eyes, "I _have _no soul. You know this!"

The Elder Brother chuckles, standing up. "Follow me," he says, making his way around the kitchenette and out the door, "I have something I want to show you. I wanted to hear your story to be sure, but the moment I saw you I knew: come, there is an ancient text that has answers to your dilemma."

Sandor followed the Elder Brother through the modest halls of the small Sept, eventually coming into a small, dusty, but well maintained library. He looks over the tomes, recognizing various editions and versions of the Seven Pointed Star, and noticing some not-so-religious tomes, most having to deal with the occult. Behind him, he can hear the Elder Brother shuffling around, lighting candelabras and dusting some shelves, muttering titles and noting that they were not what he wanted.

"A-ha!" He finally shouts, "I have found it!" He dusts the tome gently, revealing a thick text of red velvet binding and silver lettering, titled: "True Blood". It's author, Van Helsing. "I have read this many times during my years as a vampire hunter, and many times since I have retired. Not many vampire hunters read this book, for Van Helsing writes about saving the Vampire, instead of slaying." He looks to Sandor, "It was the last book he ever wrote, and the only one of his the Faith of the Seven bans."

Sandor snorts, "Then why is it here?"

The Elder Brother smiles enigmatically, "Because I am in charge of the library." He lays the tome on the tiny desk within the room, bringing the candles closer. "As I have said, I have read it many times. I have not always agreed with it, nor understood at first, but as I reach the twilight of my life, it continues to teach me new things. Ah!" he exclaims, pointing to a seemingly random page, "Here it is. I could tell you what I know to be true about vampires, and their souls, but you would not believe me unless I showed you the source, and so here we are." He turns the book around so Sandor can read, but he continues to explain what he knows to Sandor.

"Basically, there are only a few ways a vampire can regain their souls, as described in overabundance in the book. I will give you the cliff notes version. You have found one such redeeming way quite by accident.

"The first is self-destruction. While humans are damned if they commit suicide, vampires are reclaimed by the Seven if they do so, and do so willingly and with remorse in their thoughts.

"Another is sacrifice, which is an admiral deed whether dead or alive. If a vampire willingly destroys, or detrimentally harms, his or herself for the greater benefit of another, preferably mortal, they gain their soul again, just in time for the Seven to reclaim them.

"By now you recognize a theme: accepting True Death. However, there is one known way for a vampire to regain its soul, and live. And that is to gain the love of a willing mortal." He pauses, looks at the book upside-down, then points to a passage no longer then three lines long:

_"There is a legend among the vampyre lore that a willing virgin can bring about a vampyre's destruction, or redemption. A willingly sacrificial virginal man or woman can not only be the means to destroy a vampyre, as most successfully done against the monster named 'Nosferatu', but willing virgins can also save those creatures of the night. A vampyre cannot overpower a pure human, cannot deny a pure human's power, and can easily be slain. On the other hand, should a vampyre gain a pure ally, or pure lover, they may rejoice with gladness, for the Seven knows of their worthiness, and rejoins husk with holy essence."_

Sandor looked up to the Elder Brother, brows furrowed, not quite believing what he read.

"You can see why it is an unpopular book," the Elder Brother commented, "who wants to read about _saving _vampires? But yes, that is what makes up the philosophy of the book as a whole. Saving 'true' vampires, those of worthy blood, 'True Blood'. Terrible title, I know, but there you have it. Van Helsing spends pages on the virtues of those vampires he has actually met that had been good, if only in the last few years of his life, unfortunately. But being the authority of monsters and mystical creatures, we know Van Helsing is not making fantasy when he says those few undead friends have reclaimed their souls."

Sandor looked back down at the book, mind racing a mile a minute, not daring to hope, to believe, to trust the word of this brother, and of this most famous vampire hunter of all. He had never heard of Van Helsing changing his tune about monsters, until now. But how could he doubt it? He read Van Helsing's other works, for pure spite, and he knew the man's words, his manner. This _was _his writing, his style, and the stupid title... it all fit.

"So you think," he spoke towards the book, not daring to look at the Elder Brother, "That Sansa can help me regain my soul?"

"I think she's already helped you halfway. The book mentions 'true friendships' as a worthy way. And why I believe you are so drawn to be in her presence again."

"Bullshit." Sandor states, "It couldn't be so easy. I can't give her anything she wants. She won't always be around. This" and he thumped the book, causing the librarian monk to wince, "is bullshit."

Sighing, the Elder Brother wipes at his brow, "I did not say I, nor the book, would have all the answers, Sandor." He gather's the book, closing it and protecting it from further harm. "As with anything in life, nothing comes easily. You know this, I know this, and this book knows this. This isn't the 'be all end all' of your problems. It is just a sign post, to show you that you are already on your way to redemption, if you just accept what Sansa can do for you, and stop being afraid of harming her.

"It won't be easy, my friend. Any road to redemption will be long, perilous, and full of twists and temptations. But it will go easier if you stop believing that you are no good to Sansa, that you have nothing to offer her, that your short time with her is worthless. I don't know what it is worth, Sandor, but it's worth examining, at least."

Silence fills the library again, a fitting tune to the staring contest that arose between the skeptic and the teacher. Eventually sighing, the Elder Brother smiled, knowing it was not he that could convince the vampire, but circumstance and experience. He looked away first, confirming the dawn that was mere minutes away.

"Come," he gestured towards Sandor, "let us get you underground for the day."


	8. You Are My Sunshine

**You Are My Sunshine**

_"No man knows till he has suffered from the night how sweet and how dear to his heart and eye the morning can be." -Johnathan Harker: Dracula._

Lightning flashed through the darkness, and a millisecond later, thunder boomed. The patter of rain quickened, became louder, and rivaled the thunder in sound. The vampire, used to walking silently and deadly, was further doused by Mother Nature's cacophony. Only his shadow, tall and looming, is known to the world in brief intervals.

His clothing is plastered to him, making a clammy body that much more uncomfortable, and his hair matted to his face, leading tiny rivers of rainwater to trail all along his face. Minuscule lakes formed and flooded upon his scars, while the man tilted his head up, staring at the window that sheltered the only happiness he had ever known the last few hundred years.

It had been years since he's seen her bright visage, and the turmoil in his heart and mind rivaled that which physically drenched him. The gloom that appeared the further he distanced himself from her had started out small; a depressing mist that hung around him while he wandered the slums of random cities, feeding when he needed, fighting his brother's injustice in the only way he knew how, replacing that monster with the untold thousands of thieves, perverts, murderers, rapists, drug lords, and so on that he wiped away from existence.

Then his anger, his fear, his sorrow, multiplied month by month, growing worse with every moment he was not near her. Till his very reason for living, to say nothing of eating seemed buried in the torrent of pain. He became gaunt, just this side of the living dead, one step away from the True Death himself.

The soulless wanderer came and went, from city to city, the words of the Dornish brother and his thrice cursed book haunting him no matter how far he traveled, no matter how starved he became that he couldn't act, let alone think. Eventually, the powerful words would not only taunt him like an ever present whisper on the wind, but guided his unconscious actions, tugged his instincts towards that which his rational mind, now numb, would never have allowed. He would never believe in otherworldly fates and shit spewed by well-meaning men and their books of convenient facts, but he could believe that her power over him was enough to pull on his center of gravity, like the true sun's pull on a despondent, cold, lifeless chunk of rock floating aimlessly through space.

He had gravitated closer, unknowingly traveling north and east; his numb mind distracted and centered around one idea: "_Let me cease to feel. Let me cease..."_

It was up to his body, suffering though it was, to take charge; while the man wallowed in self-pity, little realizing where he was going, instinct moved one foot in front of the other. There was little chance of decaying: of choosing a local dumpster, slumping next to it, and perishing; instincts would not allow such. And should a Vampire Slayer come upon him, his fangs and his fists would defend of their own accord. All the while, Sandor watched with dispassionate eyes all that happened around him, and waited listlessly for the moment when it would all... cease.

__Now he walked through reviving waters, it sluicing away his sluggish fog, and he knew where he was. Instinct drew him forward, his mind still too weak to decry that he would harm her. A door opened before him, and the rain water followed, leaving puddles on imitation Bravosi carpeting, his boots squelching loudly in the nearly silent corridor of an apartment complex, his stomach fluttering with butterflies, his mind... blissfully awakening yet still heeding the call of nature: a mother that always knew best.

And then, _she _is holding him: arms wrapping around him, warmth suffusing him as he holds on to her for literal life. When he had knocked on her door, he doesn't recall, if he spoke to her, he can't remember; he falls to his knees, bowed over against her stomach, and silently begs her, his goddess, to... he does not know, but he begs her.

She smells heavenly, she smells different. Traces of a hospital, a dog, a flowery perfume... new things in her life that have replaced the vampire, as had once thought they should. Bitterness inflames him, and he buries his head further in her stomach, crying anew. She had once had an overwhelming smell of dust and books and learning; he had missed so much of her life now, and with little time afforded to live, it was unacceptable that he had ignored her.

He had not known the sacrifice it was to release her from him, and though he thought his absence was the right thing to do, it was wrong, all wrong. It was wrong that she lived alone, by herself, without even a roommate to keep her company. It was wrong that her only companion for most evenings was a mongrel, a show or book, and a pint of ice cream. It was wrong that there were shadows underneath her young eyes that should instead be vibrant with joy; her skin calloused with hard work, her frame just living, but not... _living! _

As much as his practical mind said it was wistful thinking that it was solely his fault that, in leaving, made her a woman buried in work so to forget what is was to be happy, the fanciful part of his mind knew it for true: it had been wrong for him to leave, and he held the key to revive her, as much as himself.

She sits in an armchair, and he lays his head on her lap, grabbing at her thighs like a lifeline, hunching down and becoming a pitiful creature that has crawled in from the dark, begging for something he has no right to ask for, trying to remember why he wants to live, and what the fuck there was to live _for. _Something no holy man could give the vampire, but could hint at; her pure and willing soul is the answer, had always been the answer, and he reached the point where he could deny the truth no longer.

She tilts his head up, fingers warm and gentle, and kisses his lips chastely. His tears subside, calmness suffuses him again, and he sighs. When she releases his lips, he is not afraid for her damnation, and he knows neither is she when she cradles his head close to her breasts. He can tell she has started to shiver against his wet and cold body, but still she is warmer than he is, and he greedily holds on.

Feminine arms rub his back, up and down, up and down, till he feels drowsy. She shifts, and the smell of her neck becomes powerful, entrancing. He rubs his nose against her chest, clavicle, and neck, till his mouth is right over her pulse point. She hums, and her offer of blood stills his mind again. Everything slows down. A minute or two passes, while they stay locked in the moment between offering and taking; it is a moment he cherishes, a moment in time, where her whole trust and love is given to him, and he wants to appreciate it as if it were a physical thing: this wonderful moment in time.

Slowly, to savor and to control, he opens his mouth, scrapping fangs along flesh, holding her tighter as she shivers some more. Again he stills, stilling the raging starvation that has flared in the presence of _her _and begs to stuff his fill. When he feels he can eat without being a glutton, he bites down, hearing an involuntary whimper from her; involuntary, but an anchor between them, between prey and hunter, between lovers. She is not a victim, she is not food that is lower on the food chain: she is higher, a siren, but benevolent, and gave godly food that fed his soul, not his body.

The first lap of blood on his tongue feels like liquid acceptance. The second like love. His veins are physically filled, but with every drink of her blood, he feels grateful, instead of just satiated; he never knew such a thing could happen, that he could _feel _the bond that existed between hunter and willing prey, and he abnormally feels everything about her, instead of himself. He knows her thoughts, he knows her feelings, and he knows she would not give this moment up for anything.

He knows when he has taken as much as he can without hurting her permanently, and he stops immediately, without difficulty. He chastely kisses her neck, as a human would, and then looks up to her in wonder. She has tears as well, but smiles at him. She has him back, and never thought she would ever have seen him again. She has had her own sorrow amongst the joys of life.

Grey eyes bore into blue oceans, knowing her happiness for a fulfilling job, knowing how wonderful a NICU nurse she is. He tears up at how beautiful that thought is, but grows sad again that she will never know motherhood; not from him at least.

But the future nothing compared to here and now, the power of appreciating what one has for whatever amount of time overcoming him, so Sandor dismisses the future. He reaches up to cup her cheek, and then she is holding on to him for dear life now. They both kneel by the armchair now, and she sobs against his chest, while he now rubs her back and tries to soothe her. He kisses her temple, her cheek, and then her lips.

Still numb from their time apart, he neither knows nor cares what she had been wearing, but all to soon she's not wearing anything, laying beneath his equally naked self upon the floor between her various furniture, and holds on to him as he thrusts into her.

_THUMP-THUMP!_

Her gasp of pain is but an echo in his mind, as he stills and looks at her in shock. But not for her sake, he is ashamed to admit later on, but for his own. No doubt she had felt pain, but Sandor had also felt a jolt, a tremor that ran through his who body, head to toe. For the first time in centuries, he feels warmth suffusing his body, and not from the blood he has siphoned from others, but from his heart.

It had thumped, it had quickened, and it had swelled with amorous happiness: for she had waited for him, and had still been pure. He can feel her innocence's blood spilled upon his manhood, and can scent it as well. Dimly Sandor is aware that Sansa is trying to catch her breath, getting used to his girth and the newness of sex, moaning with the sensation of being filled to the brim. Still in a state of shock, he brings his fingers to where their sexes meet, and explores her canal. His thumb instinctively massages her button, bringing her towards pleasure and helping her forget the pain, as Sandor's other fingers found his original quarry and dip into her essence.

Soon enough he is licking a mix of her blood and juices off his fingers. If possible, Sansa's face matches her hair in embarrassment, but she makes no move to stop him or look away. Indeed, as he savors the sweetest blood he has ever tasted, she shines forth with smiles through the blushes. Groaning in appreciation of her sweet nectar, he gives a half thrust into her once more.

She gasps again, bringing his focus back solely towards her. He leans down to kiss her, "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I did not mean to harm you."

She grins against his lips, bringing her arms around his neck, tonguing her essence that he had unwittingly gave her a taste of as well. "You could never hurt me." She replies, and after a few seconds of staring into each other's eyes with an understanding, she shifts against him.

He feels her, the gift of empathy from earlier still hanging on; he knows of her joy, gratitude, and thankfulness for him being back. He grinds slow, reveling in her happiness, and just because he is _there_. He leaks tears at feeling her worry, worrying that this is just another random visit, that she better make the most of it, just as he had thought himself earlier.

Holding her face with one hand, his hand a frame to her utter beauty that has not faded, they stare at each other, each rapt and still in wonder over finding each other again. His other wraps around her waist and brings her impossibly closer, chests mashing against each other wherein he could feel her heartbeat thundering against him, overshadowing the storm that was slowly receding outside.

Thus entwined as never before, embracing and accepting love that was never truly acknowledged, overwhelmed by her scent, blood, and warmth, he buries his head into her neck and his hips recede from hers. Slowly, he brings their cores together again, the stroke languorous and filling. Just as he had lapped at her blood earlier, he wanted to savor, and not be a glutton for his pleasure. She moans into his ear, tightening her arms and walls even more so, causing the vampire to revel in heat he hasn't felt in ages. Again, he recedes and again another slow but sure stroke follows.

With every slow thrust, he promises himself, _'Never again, never again. I'll not leave her.' _"I'll not leave you, Little Bird." He says.

She gasps at his words. It had been a harsher thrust, but he knows it had been what he said that had moved her. "Sandor..." She replies, and he feels what she wants to say, but cannot utter over the rising pleasure that will not plateau, every increasingly stronger stroke bringing her towards completion. Soon, his thrusts become swift and strong, bringing her pleasure to crest over, toppling her senses as she screams out rapturously.

And he follows. Grunting as she clamps on him tightly, groaning, and saying her name like a prayer, "San... Sansa..." Till he finishes within her his own pleasure, spurts of long dead cum coating her walls and mixing with her juices and her blood; their joining more complete than ever before.

It was the best fuck he ever had, and yet with a sense that there was even better! Never had it been like this, and he knows that _that _is what it is like to gain pleasure from making love. It has always been about the blood, but this once he not only pleased her with the act, but somehow, by some miracle, he didn't need blood to feel ecstasy. He needed it, yes, to flow his veins and stiffen his cock, but beyond the mechanics, he did not need to feed to feel complete. He just needed her.

He held her even closer, sagging against her completely in elated release, both hardly caring about rug burns or the cramped quarters between the sofa and coffee table, both already making plans for another, softer, more exploratory, joining, perhaps upon a bed. Sandor contemplates more on what the hell had just happened; he would not trade it for the world, but he appreciates...

_'Fucking Elder Brother had been right.'_

The morning that follows dawns bright and clear, the storm's rage a thing of the past, and a golden haze filters through the curtains. It slants at a harsh angle, and dust motes fly through, becoming brief sparkles that captured one's gaze, should anyone have been awake. An hour or so after dawn, a ray of brightness had traversed the young woman's abode, feeding her plants, shining upon knickknacks, disturbing her pet dog from its own sleepiness, before alighting upon the naked couple entwined on the floor.


End file.
